


bored of cheap and cheerful

by v_greyson (greyson)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Biting, Bruises, M/M, some painplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-07 00:10:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyson/pseuds/v_greyson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He takes Brandon's hand and puts it against the bruise - it's high on his cheekbone but not quite a black eye. "You can -" Shawsy says, pulling back to look Brandon in the eye. "-you know. Make it yours, or whatever."</p>
            </blockquote>





	bored of cheap and cheerful

**Author's Note:**

> AU inspired by [this drawing](http://bottledminx.tumblr.com/post/46081095616/saucefactory-perfect-their-expressions-are) and discussion with the Twitter Enabling Crew. A few lines were appropriated from queerly_it_is & bottledminx on Twitter. Thanks to anatsuno for beta <3.
> 
> Bollig & Shawsy visual aids/primer [here.](http://kanerd.tumblr.com/post/42652924908/reasons-why-you-should-ship-shawsy-bollig-and-then)
> 
> Title from The Kills.

Shawsy climbs in the window while Brandon's flicking between his stats homework and a YouTube video on how to diagram rugby plays. "Hey," Shawsy says, and Brandon's smile washes away when he sees the darkening bruises on Shawsy's face.

"What the fuck happened?" Brandon says, out of his chair and across the room in an adrenaline-spike rush, pulling Shawsy close with one hand on his uninjured cheek and the other fisted in his jacket, in _Brandon's_ jacket that Shawsy's wearing. 

Shawsy tolerates the manhandling, leaning into Brandon's palm. He looks down, the fan of his eyelashes dark above the swollen skin, says, unconvincingly, "It's not a big deal."

"I'll fucking _kill_ them," Brandon says, and Shawsy looks up at him sharply. 

"I can take care of myself," he snaps, and grabs Brandon's wrists, shoves him away.

Brandon inhales slowly, keeps his fingers open, doesn't let his hands curl into fists. Breathes out. "I know," he says. "I just -" Shawsy is still glaring a little, that proud, defiant tilt to his jaw. Brandon loves it. "I can't stand anyone else touching you," he confesses, his voice raw.

Shawsy's lips part a little, eyes wide. He looks open, wounded, and he half-jumps onto Brandon, kissing him like they're about to die, like it's about to be taken away from them forever. Brandon stumbles back, fails at keeping them upright but manages to fall onto the bed, pulling Shawsy down on top of him. "Fuck," Shawsy says, resting their foreheads together. He takes Brandon's hand and puts it against the bruise - it's high on his cheekbone but not quite a black eye. "You can -" Shawsy says, pulling back to look Brandon in the eye. "-you know. Make it yours, or whatever."

Brandon presses a little, enough to turn Shawsy to the side, drawing a small, bitten-off noise out of Shawsy. He leans up and brushes his mouth against the bruise, gentle, hardly even a kiss. Shawsy's blushing, skin hot under Brandon's mouth, pink and warm where it's not bruised. "Where else," Brandon says, and Shawsy sits up, straddling Brandon's hips, to strip the jacket and shirt off in one bundle. Brandon flips them over, sliding down to the first dark spot on Shawsy's ribs, kissing it, rubbing his beard against it until Shawsy tries to squirm away. "You gotta protect your left side," Brandon says, and kisses the next one, a little further down. 

An older bruise on Shawsy's hipbone peeks out from the top of his skinny jeans, and Brandon knows that one, knows it's in the shape of his mouth. He hooks his thumb into the top of Shawsy's jeans, gets himself enough room to _bite._ "Ah, shit," Shawsy says, gasping, arching up into it, his whole body tense. Brandon smirks and kisses the fresh mark, moves back up to the bruises on Shawsy's ribs. 

"Tell me to stop if you need to," Brandon says, and digs his fingers into a bruise, sucking a mean, nasty hickey beside it. Shawsy strains upwards, his chest rising and falling in short, sharp gasps under Brandon's hand. 

"Oh god, Brandon, Brandon, fuck," Shawsy says, barely coherent, clutching the back of Brandon's head. Brandon eases off when he's satisfied, pets the bruise gently, watching Shawsy blink his eyes open. He looks wrecked, pupils huge and lips red where he's chewed them, flushed all the way to his collarbones, his hair messed up on top and the shaved sides of his head glistening with sweat. 

Brandon smiles at him and gets to work on the other bruise, pressing with his thumb and biting Shawsy hard just beside the mark, feeling Shawsy's heartbeat racing under his palm.

Shawsy makes an inarticulate noise, all vowels and hurting and need, and Brandon leans up to kiss him. Shawsy's eyes are watering, a little, not that he would ever admit it in a million years, so Brandon just kisses him deep and dirty and wet, Shawsy sliding his hands underneath Brandon's shirt and straining his hips towards Brandon's. "Take this off," Shawsy demands, pulling on Brandon's shirt. "Pants too."

Brandon has to stand up to kick off his jeans and boxers, and Shawsy extracts himself from his stupidly tight jeans faster than Brandon ever could. He lies back on the bed, hands behind his head, and Brandon takes a second to look at him, the surprisingly solid muscles in his arms, the lean cut of his hips. "Like what you see?" Shawsy says, teasing.

Brandon doesn't trust himself to open his mouth and have anything but _mine, you're mine_ come out, so he only nods, settling on top of Shawsy and running his hands down Shawsy's chest, fisting Shawsy's cock loosely and jacking it a few times. "Don't be a tease," Shawsy says, clawing at Brandon's thigh, thrusting into Brandon's hand. "Come on, fuck."

"Shh," Brandon says, and tightens his grip on Shawsy's cock as he wraps his free hand around Shawsy's side, spanning as much of the bruises as he can, and _squeezes._ Shawsy thrashes, eyes shut, mouth open and head thrown back, the tendons in his neck standing out sharply. Brandon lets up on the bruises and Shawsy relaxes, making a noise that Brandon can only think of as whimpering, still rocking his hips up to meet Brandon's hand. Brandon leans over to the nightstand, fishes out a bottle of lotion. He has to stop touching Shawsy for a second to slick his hand up, and Shawsy makes an offended noise and reaches for him immediately.

"Again?" Brandon asks, rubbing the bruises lightly, jerking Shawsy faster now that his hand's slippery. Shawsy swallows and nods, eyes closed. "Hey," Brandon says, tapping his bruised cheek. Shawsy's eyes fly open. "Yeah?" Brandon asks, holding his gaze.

"Yeah," Shawsy says, hoarse, and Brandon watches Shawsy's wince as he presses down on the bruises again, eyes screwed shut and mouth falling open, breath coming in harsh rasps. Brandon is so hard he's surprised there's any blood left anywhere in his body at all, dick slapping red and wet against his belly. "I'm gonna fucking -" Shawsy gasps, and Brandon says, "Go on, do it," twisting his fingers cruelly and then letting go, and Shawsy comes all over Brandon's hand and his own stomach, groaning, arm flung over his eyes.

"Shit," Brandon says, kneeling up and jacking off gracelessly, knees on either side of Shawsy's hips, looking at the mess on Shawsy, the spunk and the teeth marks and the darker spots from his fingers inside the fist-shaped bruises.

"You gonna come on me?" Shawsy asks, looking sly and sated. His eyes are only half-open, but he's got that smug tilt to his mouth, the one Brandon can never tell if he wants to kiss or punch. "Get me all fucked up and dirty?"

"You're already dirty," Brandon manages to say, but it's more breathless than irritated.

"Yeah, but you wanna put yours on me," Shawsy says, "you wanna mark me up -"

"Fucking right," Brandon says. "Because you're _mine_." He snaps his mouth shut, eyes wide, shocked at himself.

"Fuck yes," Shawsy says, eyes fierce, knocking Brandon's hand away from his dick and replacing it with his own. "I want you to, I want everyone to know, I wore your jacket all day, with your number on it," and Brandon falls forward, catches himself on his hands, Shawsy still stroking him, rough and tight and perfect. "I want it, fucking do it, fucking come on me -" and Brandon does, looking down to watch himself shoot on Shawsy's chest, gasping and shaking as Shawsy strokes him through it.

He collapses down onto his side, curled right up against Shawsy because it's a small bed. Shawsy has his eyes closed, breathing deep. Brandon can't think of another time he's seen Shawsy so relaxed. He kisses the tip of Shawsy's nose and Shawsy makes a hilarious scrunched up face before headbutting him gently and then stretching dramatically, faking like he'll accidentally push Brandon onto the floor. "Hey," Brandon protests. "It's my bed."

"Mmhmm," Shawsy says, scrubbing his face against the pillow. "Okay."

"Are you sleeping?"

"Mmhmm," Shawsy says. Brandon grabs a handful of tissues off the nightstand and wipes the worst of the mess off before pulling the blanket up over them both. Shawsy rolls onto his side and scoots back against Brandon, dragging Brandon's arm around his waist and weaving their fingers together. "You're mine too," Shawsy says, and Brandon falls asleep with his smile pressed against the back of Shawsy's neck.


End file.
